


The Detective, His Blogger and The Mirror

by Equivocation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equivocation/pseuds/Equivocation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine your biggest fear, not the silly sort, like your fear of spiders or your fear of heights, imagine the fear that you lock away, the fear that lives in the deepest, darkest place in your heart. The fear that you refuse to acknowledge because it is that strong. The fear that, once you confess to it, once you free it, it takes over you. Now imagine that fear manifested as an object, an external force, one that once it takes over your mind with its poison, takes the minds of those around you.</p><p>What you are imagining now is The Mirror. ON HIATUS!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've already uploaded this on fanfiction.net so if you want to read that there, click  here   
> Hope you enjoy! :)

"What? - Never mind."

John shifted his gaze from the large object that Sherlock had brought into the flat and renewed his focus back on the laptop, intent on writing his blog without any distractions. The last week had been what he called a 'demanding week.' Not necessarily a 'bad week' those were reserved for the weeks Sherlock was bored but, a week of minimal sleep, even less food and what he classed as a dangerously low amount of tea was not exactly a 'good week.'

He was typing up the Ripper Case, the case which was at the heart of his problems and wanted to finish writing it today as tomorrow would be a 'bad day' or in other words, Sherlock would be bored. Which was a bit more than a bit not good.  
Fortunately, (or not, he hadn't decided) Sherlock had apparently already taken up a case and was whizzing round the flat, babbling at the speed of light. John let out a resigned sigh as he closed his laptop and busied himself in the kitchen, starting to make some tea, not even trying to figure out what Sherlock was up to, he learnt very early on that interrupting Sherlock Holmes while he was on a case could very damn well be detrimental to your health. Sherlock had a case and John's frankly silly dream of a quiet, relaxing day could wait. So, with that in mind, John made absolutely sure to enjoy his tea while he could, he wouldn't be drinking such a luxury in the next week, maybe five days if he was lucky.

John looked at the object in the middle of the room again, the sheet that covered it flowed lightly in the breeze, and it was an oddly calming sight, almost therapeutic. It drew John in, made everything clearer, more calmer, more-

"What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice jolted John out of whatever he was in, alerting John to the fact that he was standing right in front of the object, arm raised, itching to remove the sheet that separated the object, whatever it was, and John.

"Er…Nothing…" John cringed at the useless excuse and edged away from the object to sit in his seat, hoping against hope that Sherlock would drop it and he could have his tea so he could forget whatever just happened to him a few moments ago.

But Sherlock being Sherlock, who just needs to know everything about everything, (except about the most basic of knowledge, it still shook John that Sherlock didn't know the Earth went round the Sun) naturally Sherlock would want to know why John was just wondering what the object was so he could finally call it something more specific than the object, (the sarcasm was dripping from John's thoughts).

"So-"

"What is it then?" John asked, pointing to the object, before Sherlock could finish asking what John knew he was going to ask.

For a moment Sherlock looked thrown as if he had never been cut off in his life, which added to John's satisfaction, but quickly recovered, now wearing his mask of innocence and said "Oh, just something for a case."

"I can see that."

"Congratulations John."

"I'm not stupid."

"I'll leave you to your own deductions."

"Seriously, Sherlock, what is it?"

"Shouldn't you be at home with Mary or something?" Sherlock questioned, clearly irritated, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise that.

"Don't answer my question with a question Sherlock, and she's in Cardiff, that's why I'm here."

"I'm hurt John, you only came here because Mary left?" Sherlock said in mock hurt.

"For god's sake, Sherlock." John sighed, and stood up from his chair, tiring of Sherlock's childish moods and tried to remove the sheet so he could see what the goddamned thing was already!  
Keyword: Tried.

Sherlock, (of course!) deflected John's prying hand and shielded any further attempts on the mirror by planting himself firmly between the mirror and John. John launched himself at Sherlock. Punches were thrown, what else could John do, he loved a good fight now and then. Sherlock had managed to get to his feet. So did John. John launched himself at Sherlock. Again. Sherlock clasped the sheet in his long, slender fingers while he toppled over, clearly caught off guard that the same attack strategy had been applied instead of a (logically) new one, (but probably more caught off guard that he had been caught off guard).  
And then the inevitable happened. Well, gravity happened for want of a better term.  
The sheet fell, in slow motion like a leaf, light, gracefully and attracted all the eyes in the room, keeping them locked on the sheet with an unearthly hold.  
John gasped.  
It was here.  
The Mirror.

John stumbled backwards, common things like balance or breathing forgotten in his shock. His knees felt weak, his heart pounded in his throat, aching and sore, his brain stopped functioning, and John found it difficult to process a single thought. His whole body was on pause, frozen, parked.

It was an age before John could breathe and even longer before he could manifest a thought let alone move. When he did, he ran.

Call it an old habit, or Army training, but John Watson always found it relaxing when he ran, when the cold, harsh air bit his skin and he could feel the blood pumping through his veins, rushing to his muscles and lungs. The way his heart thumped in his chest was soothing, like a sedative lulling a man to a dreamless sleep, allowing his thoughts to wander, roam free without bounds.

When he joined the Army all those years ago, he didn't think for one second he would ever see It again, (the capitals where present even in his head) in fact, It was the reason he became a surgeon, why he joined the army. In a way It had help shape the man he had become.

Imagine your biggest fear, not the silly sort, like your fear of spiders or your fear of heights, imagine the fear that you lock away, the fear that lives in the deepest, darkest place in your heart. The fear that you refuse to acknowledge because it is that strong. The fear that, once you confess to it, once you free it, it takes over you. Now imagine that fear manifested as an object, an external force, one that once it takes over your mind with its poison, takes the minds of those around you.

What you are imagining now is The Mirror.

And you better pray that what you are imagining stays in your imagination, an image concocted out of a description, nothing more. Because you really don't want that part of your imagination to become a reality.

Why?

Because it will tear everything you know apart.

And it had done so to John before, and now it will do it again.

John, faced with this conclusion now feared something else entirely, what it would do to Sherlock.  
John with new found resolve, made his way to their flat, winding his way through the people milling about at Baker Street Station and all but ran when his path cleared.

"Sherlock!"

"John?" The concern in Sherlock's voice would in any other day, surprise him but today, he could only think of but one thing, and that was getting that thing out of the flat and then for the second time in his life, try to forget, "Are you okay? John?"

"Get that thing out of here." His hands were trembling, his glare icy cold, completely the opposite of his unassuming, gentle persona, "Now."

"It's for a case."

Right now, Sherlock baritone voice was absolutely infuriating, could the man who claims he knows everything about anything under the sun, really not know how much danger they were in? Could he not deduce it from his stance, his hands, and his face?

"It's dangerous!"

"It's a mirror!" Sherlock scoffed, almost laughed but there was something that was serious in his eyes, John couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"No it's not!" John roared, briefly sparing a thought for his landlady and how the noise would be worrying her, so he tried to keep his voice steady when he said, "You don't know the half of it."

Sherlock looked like he was going to say something but just said, with the same tone John had used asked, "So then tell me."

John sighed. He hadn't told anyone about this, it was a secret that would never be discovered, that he would take to the grave. But he told Sherlock.

John Watson was a man of many words, he always had been. He had a reply to everything, much like Sherlock Holmes but unlike Sherlock, he also knew when to keep quiet. John could tell a tale, he knew that, his blog was proof, because however much his flatmate protested it was romantic nonsense, people enjoyed reading it. He could spin words to his favour, he could capture an audience with one well played word. So when he tried to tell Sherlock the most important story in his life and came up speechless, he was nothing short of shocked.

When he found the right words, he stumbled through them, unable to string the words into an intelligent sentence as he poured out his most guarded secret.

He was only a little boy when it started, ten years old in the summer of 1978. They were moving into their new house. He remembered it all so clearly, it was almost laughable that John had spent his entire life trying, trying so bloody hard to forget.  
But It never leaves you. It never completely loosens its hold on you, John had spent his entire life figuring that one out. Harry was thirteen, a completely different person to the one she was now, she was happy unlike the woman that drowned in her sorrows. His mother and father were still married and all in all everyone was happy.

And then It started to poison the minds of his parents. He watched it happen with his own young eyes, he never saw it like his sister, who understood right from the beginning what happened, who was smart enough to know what was happening instead of ignoring it with the blissful innocence of the young. Maybe if he was older, he would be the same like his sister.

It made his father drink, it ruined his parent's marriage, it made his sister become damaged beyond repair and it made him grow older so much quickly. It made their father abuse their mother, abuse them. It made their lives torment, and then it killed his father. Who wasn't a bad person, he was a victim.

John told this to Sherlock as best as he could without crying, because damn the soldier in him, he wasn't this strong.

Sherlock saw a side to John that no one saw, he saw the sadness that hid behind John's happy and bright nature. It came as a shock to both him and John when Sherlock said,

"I know what it does. It happened to me as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed what you have been kind enough to read! I got the idea when I watched Oculus, which this is based on. Updates will be whenever I have finished a chapter which could be any length of time, it really depends on whether I have time and how I much difficulty I have writing it. For those who are wondering, this is not slash, just a very strong friendship between two amazing characters. I have the plot done, so I know where I want to go with this! :)
> 
> Reviews would be very helpful, I want to know how I am doing and what I need to change. This is unbeta'd so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> THANK YOU!
> 
> Until the next page
> 
> ~ ElevenWholockian ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 2! I do have to warn you, there is some bad language, but I thought, it's Sherlock. Someone is going to swear sooner or later so might as well be sooner! Hope you enjoy! :)

He tiptoed his way to the shed at the end of the back garden, sword at the ready and his eyes alert. He was almost in a state of hyper-awareness, his senses more acute, more tuned. He dived behind the shed, taking a moment to have a quick breather and then he would go back to hunting the enemy. He peeked his head out from behind the shed, scanning the area for any trace of the enemy but everything was still, not a sound, not even a whisper, even the wind was mute.

Once Sherlock was convinced the coast was clear he took a small step from out behind the shed, ready to head to the tree so he could scale it and get a better viewpoint. He continued his way through the garden to the lone tree in the middle of the yard, which towered above everything else, its branches reached out like arms, ready to entrap him in their grip. It always haunted him in the short time he had been here, but it was the only logical place to see where the enemy was, so he would climb it.  
That in mind he resumed his short trek to the tree-

"Boo!"

Sherlock barely had the time to voice his surprise, he was sure no one had been tailing him, absolutely sure, before he was in a duel with his greatest foe, Captain of the King's Horses. He was the toughest, meanest, strongest Captain of them all. But he was no match for Sherlock Holmes.  
The enemy advanced, malice glowing on every inch of his face, Sherlock took a step back, or was 'breaking ground' in fencing terminology. Once Sherlock was a good distance away from the enemy, Sherlock lunged, his right leg in a perfect right angle while his left was completely straight as was his back. He attacked the enemy quickly and made an equally quick recovery so that he was safe from incoming attack. Fortunately the enemy was caught off guard and hadn't been able to dodge or parry the attack before Sherlock had withdrawn and soon they were circling each other, sizing the other up, torn between waiting for the other to attack or to make an attack themselves.

Sherlock was leaning towards attacking the enemy himself when said enemy executed a beat attack which Sherlock parried with ease, Sherlock saw the chance to execute a riposte, it was crucial he done so now otherwise the opponent would be able to defend the attack thought Sherlock, his many lessons in the art of fencing coming in useful. So, without disengaging or drawing back, he attacked directly off the blade he had just a moment ago parried. The enemy it seemed had expected this move and dropped down to his knees exercising demanding agility, and affected a passata sotto, driving his blade to Sherlock's horribly exposed chest. The tip brushed against Sherlock's chest, Sherlock held his breath as Mycroft flashed Sherlock his insufferably smug smile and -

"Sherlock!" Mummy's voice boomed from the house, stopping Sherlock and Mycroft's fencing match quite abruptly, "Get inside, the both of you!"

"But mummy! I was beating The Captain of The King's Horses!" Sherlock pouted, sulking his way to the house.

"Nonsense dear brother, I was beating you." Mycroft smirked, the smugness plagued his voice in a way that made Sherlock want nothing less than to make him walk the plank.

"This pirate lark, I tell you!" Was all Mummy said as she bustled her way to the kitchen, sighing and moaning about whatever it was that mothers complained about. Probably something boring and trivial, Sherlock thought, grimacing at the thought of anything so unexciting, so dull.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs, searching for his father so he could inform him of his own success. He swung the door ajar, his excitement on the tip of his tongue. It quickly depleted when he saw The Mirror (his father would be frightfully angry at Sherlock's improper use of capital letters but it couldn't be helped). It hung in the middle of the room, tauntingly so, its black frame, rusted and old. The engravings were beautiful, simple yet made with such precision and care, but he could not help but feel scared of the object rather than feel awe.

* * *

Now, Sherlock could do nothing more than smirk at his younger self, making assumptions based on a pure gut feeling. He didn't have the data, the information to make such a frankly, embarrassingly stupid deduction.

But, now he wasn't a child. He could collect the sufficient data, which brought him back to the reason the mirror was in the biohazard that was 221B Baker Street.

When he had tracked down and bought the antique at a local auction he had had everything under control. He had planned the experiment so that nothing could happen that Sherlock wasn't prepared, he had back-up plans for every imaginable scenario.  
He was very thorough. He could prove to himself that the five years of his childhood was not the work of a supernatural mirror.

But what he hadn't anticipated, what he hadn't planned at all, was John's history with the mirror.

John was sat in the kitchen, face contorted with pain, with his back to The Mirror. John felt, what can only be described as drowning. It was as if his floodgates had opened and he was drowning in his fears. Every single moment he had tried to block from his memory rushed inside John's mind in excruciating detail. John was a soldier. He had seen enough pain and death on the battlefield, he had seen it in London, but he always carried on. Now though, he was the John before John the Doctor, before John the Soldier. He was John with the childhood that went to shit after The Mirror.  
Now, he was afraid.  
He wasn't feeling the thrill of near death experiences.  
He was (god help him), scared.

"Well?" Sherlock was standing next to John, his blue eyes staring down at John intently in a way only a Holmes could, analytical and piercing.

John just grunted in answer, he knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about but was too busy trying to clear his head from the flash flood of memories to bother giving an intelligible 'no' (although he would probably use an imaginative range of vocabulary and in a lot more words) and put his head in his hands sighing, effectively ending the conversation.

Sherlock paced. John sat listening to his footsteps, finding the familiar sound of footsteps soothing and relaxing.  
And then the footsteps ceased, John became aware of Sherlock's presence leaning against the door frame of the kitchen.

"I'm going to investigate it." Sherlock lips were pressed in a hard line, unwavering like the determination behind the statement.

"Okay."

Sherlock sighed and was half way through why he had to do it and how nothing John was going to say was going to stop him, stamping his foot in a way that reminded John awfully of a five year old who wasn't allowed to get his most 'favourite-est' toy ever and was throwing a tantrum in supermarket. But then he cut off the lecture with a "Wait, what?" Only now realising John wasn't trying to stop him.

"I said okay." Sherlock looked absolutely flabbergasted, unable to believe his ears so John clarified by adding, "It's your choice. Go ahead, do it."

Sherlock stared.

That pissed John off so he just said, "What did you want me to fucking say? Don't do it Sherlock, please!" He had gotten to his feet in his anger, his voice carried with hurt and rage that were no longer simmering in the back of John's head, but boiling and bubbling, uncontrollable, "You never cared about what other people thought, clearly, because you threw yourself off a roof without bothering to wonder what it might do to me! So yes, I don't care what you do because you will do everything it takes for a god damn case and I will never be able to stop you!" John huffed.

Sherlock stood there, taking it in with nothing other than a flinch. They never talked about what happened, well, nothing past the 'I'm going to kill you, you selfish bastard' bit, because they just never wanted to. Sherlock didn't want to tell John of what he had become, and that he really wasn't a hero any more, and John never wanted Sherlock to blame himself for whatever John may have thought of doing on those particularly lonely, sad, and just in general crap nights. One, clearly, had more selfish reasoning, and the other had more selfless reasoning. You could see why one became a doctor, and why one was a former junkie and 'high-functioning sociopath'.

"Okay." Sherlock began to make a well-timed retreat to his room but stopped himself and asked, on the off chance that maybe John wasn't too upset at him, that he help him with the case, and that he was going to start it in the evening tomorrow, if he changed his mind.

John slammed the door in his face.

You don't need to be the world's only consulting detective to figure out the answer to that question.

John fell back on the bed and tried to sleep. Sherlock set about setting up for his experiment or investigation or case, whatever you want to call it, it didn't matter to Sherlock.

* * *

To say John Watson had a good night's sleep would be lying. To say he didn't look like the walking dead would be a lie so big, it would be criminal. To say he wouldn't help Sherlock would be what a fool would say. John always helped Sherlock, everyone knew that. But to let Sherlock know that John would always help him, you would have to pass a new law.

John knew he was stubborn, he was stubborn in a way only a soldier, not to mention man, could be. So when he woke up that morning, John made a point not to look at Sherlock, come within five metres of him or speak to him. But when the afternoon rolled away, and evening came a-calling, John was waiting for Sherlock before Sherlock could even think about starting without him.

They were ready to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, I had to rewrite this tons of times, mostly the fencing passage, I know absolutely nothing about fencing except what I got from Google (obviously) and I wanted it to look like something that wasn't just some duel written just for the heck of it.
> 
> Fencing terms:
> 
> Breaking Ground: Quite simply, stepping back.
> 
> Lunge:Designed as a means of attacking quickly from a distance, the lunge is one of the most well-known fencing moves. Lunging may leave you open to attack if parried or dodged. The key to a good lunge is a fast strike toward your opponent followed by an equally quick recovery to take you back out of fencing distance.
> 
> Parry: Defensive action to deflect an opponent's attack by opposing.
> 
> Beat Attack: A beat attack is an attack on your opponent's blade, made either with the intention of trying to provoke a reaction from your opponent or to break your opponent's right-of-way. As the name implies, beat attacks are made by striking your opponent's blade with your own with a small sideways motion.
> 
> Riposte: The majority of initial attacks made on the fencing strip are parried, dodged or otherwise unsuccessful. From those attacks that are parried, the defender has a brief opportunity to launch a counterstrike known as a riposte. A proper riposte is performed immediately after the parry without drawing back or disengaging; the goal is to attack directly off of the blade you parried before your opponent has a chance to recover and defend.
> 
> Disengage: Indirect action made by passing the blade under or over the opponent's blade.
> 
> Passata Sotto:A difficult maneuver to pull off, the passata sotto is a counterattack where you drop below your opponent's blade and attack from beneath. Throwing your rear leg back behind you, you extend your nonweapon hand down to catch yourself so that you're supported by your two feet and one hand as you thrust your blade upward toward your opponent's body. If one of your knees or any other part of your body touches the fencing strip, action will stop, so body control is essential when performing the move.
> 
> Until the next page
> 
> ~ElevenWholockian~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! Hope you enjoy!

There were plants everywhere.

That was the first fact John had noticed that was different about the flat, the amount of plants. He had been out all day, trying to avoid Sherlock (look how that plan worked out!) so when he came home to a flat that was lined with plants, it was a teeny-weeny bit surprising.

Sherlock entered the room, carrying files by the bucketful. He had the decency to act surprised that John had decided to help, but John knew he had already bloody deduced he was coming back (that arsehole) and was milking the situation by preserving John's dignity, which was the same as pity, which equated to murder, in John's book.

"Did you put plants into the flat, or the flat into the plants?" John asked, trying to bail himself out of the metaphorical ocean of humiliation that Sherlock had pushed him into.

"Clearly, I put the plants into the flat, have you been engaging in a conversation with Anderson? Your IQ points seem to have disappeared." And with that he exited the room, carrying the files and looked for someplace he could work without John poking his head in his business, feeling the need to make conversation.  
Tedious. Dull. Predictable. Domestic.  
Sherlock outwardly cringed at the notion of the word.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, 38 years old, and this is my colleague, Doctor John Hamish Watson," Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, speaking to one of the two camera's set up in front of him, John to his left.

"Do we need to include the 'Hamish' ?"

"Doctor John Hamish Watson, 43 years old. It is now 07:15pm, Thursday 12th July 2014. Today, myself and Doctor John Watson will conduct a scientific experiment to determine if, the subject, a mirror known as the Lasser Glass, has supernatural qualities.

"I have taken a number of precautions to ensure our safety which I will go into now, first of all, each camera and computer, which I am using to record and prove the events that may take place in this house, has its own power source, which is important. The cameras are placed in all rooms in the house, allowing full viewpoint of every room."

Sherlock crossed the room to the table, picked up one of the three clocks that were placed on the table and held it up so the second camera could see it, "This clock will go off every hour to remind John and I to eat," Sherlock gestured to the different foods that were placed in the kitchen table, "This clock will go off every half hour to remind us to drink, and this clock will go off every forty-five minutes to remind me to change the tapes. There are thermometers in every room which will go off if there is a temperature change of five degrees in either direction."

At that moment, John's mobile rang, its ringtone blasting into the silence of the room, John took it out of his pocket and resigned himself to the corner of the room, next to the window to take it.

"Hello, John?"

"Mary?"

"Yeah, hi, I called, just like you asked me to."

"When did I say that?" Sherlock now took the phone from John, ignoring the shout of protest and spoke into it, "Hello Mary!" Sherlock smiled.

"Er... Hello Sherlock, I called."

"Listen Mary, can you try to call on the hour, it's 2:17."

"Erm, yeah sure, say bye to John for me!"

"Will do, bye."

Sherlock gave the phone back to John with a, "Mary sends her love," and took his position in front of the two cameras, leaving John still thoroughly confused.

"That phone call is another precaution, I have told John's wife, Mary Watson, to call him every hour under the pretence that we are on a case and it is to ensure John's safety. There is one more precaution but we'll get into that later."

"What? Why can't it be for your safety?" But Sherlock just smirked in answer and began his next burst of information.

"Before I put the Lasser Glass in its position and unveil it, some brief history. There has been 25 murders since its first appearance four centuries ago. Every person who has owned the mirror ended up dying a gruesome death, often mutilating their own bodies or being driven to madness. Many of the victims were found dehydrated or malnourished."

Sherlock held up different photos of every victim before their death and after death also giving a brief summary of the cause of death, the pictures were horrible, more often than not, the victims were bloodied and looked possessed. Their causes of death were more horrible than the actual death however, one of the victims dehydrated even when she was in a bath tub full of water. So abnormal and horrifying were these deaths that even Moriarty would have trouble coming up of something to match it John thought, almost smiling at the thought of Moriarty being strained to think of something worse. John was pulled out of his thoughts when Sherlock's voice got more softer than usual, almost as if he was being cautious about what he said. When John realised why, his heart hammered against his chest as he continued listening, with the bravery (or stupidity according to Mycroft) of a soldier.

"In 1978, Aaron Watson moves into a new house in Hackney with his wife Melissa Watson and children, John and Harriet Watson aged ten and thirteen respectively. He purchases the Lasser Glass and puts it into his study. The parents suffer severe mental disorders in the five years of the mirror being purchased. Aaron becomes an alcoholic and abusive toward his children which results in Melissa fleeing from him. Aaron soon commits suicide." Sherlock glanced at John and gave him a small nod, as if to give support and saying sorry at the same time. When John nodded, Sherlock continued, "In 1983, Garret Holmes purchases the mirror for his new home with his wife Talitha Holmes, along with sons Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, aged eight and thirteen respectively. Again Garret becomes abusive towards his family and his wife becomes distant. Talitha is shot by her husband in a fit of rage who is then killed by his youngest son."

John gasped at this, to think that Sherlock was so scared and effected by The Mirror that he was driven to murder was terrible. Sherlock would probably insist that he was in his right mind when he had committed the crime, but John knew what It did to people so knew that instead of being a murderer, Sherlock was in fact a victim and purely innocent.

Just then an almighty ringing noise lashed out into the room, almost deafening was its intensity. John covered his ears in a frankly, weak attempt of muffling the noise and let out a string of curses aimed at the noise. Sherlock however, just smiled and pressed a button on one of the three clocks and the noise stopped leaving a ringing noise in John's ears, the absence of noise made John think very briefly that he had, in fact, become deaf.

The only reason that assured John that this was not the case was that he could hear Sherlock's almost delighted shout of "Let's eat!" Of course, it also made John think he had gone mad, Sherlock was asking for something to eat? Good God.

None the less, John entered the kitchen where he saw Sherlock opening a crisp packet and gesturing for John to open one for himself. John took a 'Salt and Vinegar' flavoured packet as opposed to Sherlock's 'Ready Salted'. The two friends ate in a comfortable silence, but got the sense that he was being timed by the way Sherlock kept checking his watch. When the two men finished, which was relatively quickly, it was only a packet of Walkers (Sherlock may have eaten of his own accord, which was rare, John literally had to spoon-feed him all the time, but it stands to reason what he would eat would not be nourishing in the slightest).

"Why don't we just break it, why are we doing this?" The question that was niggling in the back of John's brain escaped his mouth for Sherlock to answer.

"Why? Because we have to see whether it has supernatural qualities, I explained it to you perfectly clearly, you have been talking to Anderson haven't you, only he could lower the IQ point of a fairly intellectual human being."

On any other day, John would be flattered that he had received a compliment from the heartless Sherlock Holmes but today he didn't acknowledge it in the faintest, "You know it has! You just showed the camera twenty five people who have died because of it, how much proof do you need?"

"Yes, and how many accounts did I have to look through to find those twenty five, evidence is useless to me if I don't see it with my own eyes."

"Well then, see if you can destroy it, because I tried, I tried really hard and I couldn't do it. Why don't you try and see why." John grabbed a chair that was closest to him and thrust it to Sherlock's direction, his eyes challenging. He unveiled the mirror for Sherlock.

He is fifteen, sobbing and tears falling freely from his eyes, he raises his bat and smashes it into the mirror over and over again, he can't even see, the tears blurring his vision. When he becomes too tired to carry on is when he stops striking it. And he thinks it is probably the most terrifying thing he has seen in his life, and he has seen terror beyond imagining.

It was still there.

Not smashed and broken.

But looking back at him, unharmed, not one single scratch.

That's when Harry and John become hysterical, to think that they can't do anything to just stop it.

Sherlock took the chair and moved to the mirror, not looking anywhere but at the mirror, "I think John, that you have made this delusion to try to cope with what happened in that stage of your life, and you need to accept that it happened and that no matter how you look at it, it has happened so it is best to move on from it." Sherlock looked at John, who was smiling back at him, what was so funny?

"Why did you put the chair down?"

Sherlock glanced at his hand, which was exactly as John had said, now empty of the chair. Instead it was sitting to the left of him, to the right of Sherlock's chair. He must have made an unconscious decision to put it down while he was talking to John. Obviously.

"You can't can you, you can't destroy it!" John put a hand into his pocket, taking out a sheet of paper and stood in front of the second camera, the one on the left nearest to the kitchen and unfolded it, showing the sheet to the camera. There were profile pictures of people, and one circled. "I haven't been idle, I've done my own research too. Out of those twenty-five victims, how many do you think tried to destroy it Sherlock?" When he was answered with silence, John continued, addressing the camera once again, "The answer is one, Richard Clarke, a school teacher, the mirror was in his office at the school. He kept saying how it needed to be destroyed, but stood still in front of the mirror for a full minute as stated by one of his co-workers, and then walked outside the school straight into the afternoon traffic.

"How do you explain this Sherlock?" John's eyes were full of determination, and just a little bit of hope that he could get Sherlock to understand.

"I didn't break the mirror because it wasn't mine to break, I've broken my delusions but I can't make you break yours, you have to do it yourself."

"You really don't remember do you?"

"John, I'm sorry." Sherlock took John's hand in his and dragged him to where he stood, safely away from his last precaution.

Thud.

When the two friends opened their eyes they were greeted with the sight of a axe lodged right in the centre of the wall on top of the fireplace. Sherlock edged away from the axe and began winding it back out of the wall, the axe leaving a massive gaping hole where it was moments ago.  
John just stared at the hole in shock, to think he was standing right in the middle of its paths seconds ago was enough to make his knees tremble.

"What you are looking at is an axe," Sherlock took the camera on the right and videoed the axe in its starting position, above their heads on the ceiling, "which is connected to a timer, if the timer isn't reset every half hour then it will swing down from the ceiling into the mirror, as demonstrated. That is my final precaution." Sherlock put the camera back into its tripod and bounced around John to the mirror, now free of its veil and hung it up on the spot where the previous mirror resided.

"Right! Ready to begin John?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, hope you enjoyed that chapter! So sorry that nothing really happened but it is important to the plot and well, Sherlock takes a ton of precautions. This is exactly what happens in the movie, which by the way, includes Doctor Who's Karen Gillan, so now you need to watch it, and some of the speech is from the movie, but I couldn't resist!
> 
> Please review, I really appreciate it! Also if you see any mistakes please let me know so I can correct them, I do check my work but there is always something that escapes my notice... And in my case, its probably a lot of somethings...
> 
> Until the next page
> 
> ~ElevenWholockian~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope I got young John and Sherlock right! :)

Mummy was making dinner, Mummy always made the best-est food in the whole wide world, none of the boys in his new school's mothers could beat her. Mummy should become the number one chef in the world and make one of her delicious cheesecakes (like the one she made for his birthday, he was ten now, a big boy!) for the Queen!  
John was bringing some dinner to Daddy's office, because he was busy doing a lot of work (boring!) and couldn't eat with John. John opened the door to Daddy's office very carefully, he didn't want to drop the plate like last time, Mummy got very angry and shouted really loudly at John, as loud as a lion!

John peeked round the gap in the door, but Daddy wasn't there, so John put his dinner on his desk making sure it was well away from the computer, Harry spilt tea on Daddy's laptop once and he was really, really angry at her! John had thought he was going to become like the Incredible Hulk and stamp on them!  
John turned to leave, positively drooling at the thought of the homemade pizza Mummy had made, oh and for desert, Mummy had made her special chocolate fondue, but as John was closing the door he noticed a bottle on Daddy's desk, was it Pepsi? It looked like Pepsi... John made his way to the bottle and put it to his lips thinking Daddy wouldn't mind, would he, it was just one teeny-tiny sip-

"What do you think you're doing?"

John put the bottle down as quick as lightening and looked at his father in the way all children do when they are caught doing a naughty thing, their guilt as clear as day but trying to hide behind their innocence.

"Nothing." John was quick to answer, it vaguely occurred to little John that the growing red on his cheeks would do nothing to help him, but nonetheless stuck to his statement. Stubborn in a way only a child could be.

"I think you were trying to take something that wasn't yours," Daddy was growling now, marching to John from the doorway in such a way that made John feel cornered, trapped, he didn't like Daddy when he was angry, it was scary, "Well were you?" John shook his head, swallowing down the tears, "DID YOU?" Daddy screamed, briefly, John could smell a horrible odour on his Daddy's mouth, and before John could do anything, he swung.

The sound resonated throughout the whole house, shook the house like an earthquake and before John could register the fact that he had been hit, by someone who would never hurt a fly let alone his son, Mummy and Harry were in the room. Harry leapt to her brother's side, the urge to protect her brother overwhelmed her, and Mummy gasped and took John in her arms while both females checked whether John was okay, before Mummy pushed the two siblings out of the room.

The shouts that followed were like fireworks, deafening, one in a haze of drunken fury while the other was fuelled by compassion and love for her children. The shouting finished with a slam of the door, a defeated sigh, and then Mummy joined the two siblings and put them both to sleep. All the while, John made not a sound, not even a whimper, too frightened to do anything in fear of the man downstairs.

John Hamish Watson, sixteen, left secondary school with an A* for Triple Science, top of his class. He was well known throughout school to be the type of person who gets along with everyone, a kind boy; a rare breed of teenager that was critically endangered nowadays. But those who knew John properly, and not just in a 'I sat next to him in RE for a year' way, who knew John since childhood, knew that John Watson wasn't the sort of person that you could talk to in the middle of the street, at least not anymore, he was the sort of person that walked in his own world, and didn't trust anyone, didn't open the doors to his world freely, because when you let someone in your life, they can only leave it.

* * *

"Tremendous!" Cried Sherlock Holmes, "Absolutely marvellous!"

Sherlock was testing the viscosity of vegetable oil at different temperatures. His safety goggles hanged off one ear, and his lab coat was smeared in oil. He had collected a fine assortment of burns when he had got to close to the Bunsen flame in his excitement and his messy mop of hair obscured his vision, basically, he was a living, breathing, walking, talking 'Don't' textbook for experiments, and a chemistry teacher's worst nightmare, or more commonly known as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had just discovered the temperature that vegetable oil reached maximum viscosity and was now attempting to manoeuvre away from his 'experiment area' (or more commonly known to the world as a 'desk'), which homed his makeshift Viscometer (a disposable pipette with the top cut off), five water baths, five beakers of vegetable oil, a clamp stand, his timer, and two 100ml beakers to his notebook so he could record his findings.

He couldn't find his notebook on the desk but vaguely recalled that he may have left it in the kitchen when he was getting the vegetable oil so he barrelled down the stairs in search of his notebook. Sherlock was already recording his observations when he felt the knife-edged scrutiny of his father's eyes. Sherlock glanced at the experiment he had been working on, and well, you didn't need to be a genius to figure out exactly what his father was angry about.

"What, Sherlock, is this?" His eyes never left Sherlock for a second.

"Nothing important." He looked his father right in the eye, the almost noiseless reply faded into the background against his father's eye.

"Nothing important. Okay then, let's try again, why is 'Nothing important' on your brand new desk?"

Sherlock remained tight-lipped not gracing his father with an answer.

Father grabbed Sherlock by his collar and propelled him down the flight of stairs, his feet teetered at the edge of each step simulating a very near-fall (or near-death, but then Sherlock always did love to be dramatic). Sherlock cried out for Mycroft hoping his brother would save him. No sooner than a second did the distress call leave his mouth when his brother was pleading with their father to let Sherlock go, 'he's only young, I'll clear it up, just please let him go', but their father ignored the cries of his young and merely shoved Mycroft out of the way, 'get out of the way, or you'll be joining him'.  
The two brothers knew exactly where he was taking Sherlock, their anguish accumulating upon every step they took closer towards Sherlock's punishment.

Sherlock was muscled into the basement, the door slammed shut, the bolt slid in place, and his father struck Mycroft, the sound echoed through the house, the silent sobs of both boys, gut wrenching and dejected, would make worlds come tumbling down in woe. If only anyone heard them.

Their father left with a proud 'humph', not a shred of remorse or integrity was to be found, in his voice, in his heart, in his soul or anywhere else for that matter, the same of which could be said to the mother who sat in the drawing room, drinking her tea while her sons sobbed in despair, fully aware of the business that her husband was bestowing on her children, day in, day out.

* * *

"The Lasser Glass is a theoretically, a supernatural object, it's what makes this case exceptionally hard, because it acts beyond the bounds of science," Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, his hands in his iconic prayer-like position, this sentence being the first words to leave his mouth in a while, "The foundations of this case are purely theory, no solid fact, which is why we have to act accordingly."

"Right so, how do we do that?" John asked, he was trying vigorously hard to concentrate on the book he was reading and not on the subject of the conversation that was no less than a metre next to him.

"Theoretically, it feeds off life forces, starting off on plants and animals, as those organisms are far more primitive than the human body. So, that is why I have installed plants along the walls of every, hall, corridor and room in the building." Sherlock got up and produced a cage of some sort. There was a small whine that made John instantly shudder, he didn't like where this was going, "I have also brought a dog."

Sherlock unlocked the cage and held out a spaniel to John, it was a small little pup, with golden fur and rounded eyes that made John's war-hardened heart melt, he was dangerously close to asking Sherlock 'can we keep it please? I'll look after it, pretty please?' but refrained from doing so even if he had to handcuff the question to his mouth!

* * *

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?" Mycroft looked up from the book he was reading, 'The Hobbit' to see his brother looking at him with eyes that were both confused and sad. This puzzled the elder Holmes, he categorised the look as 'look into later' and then gave Sherlock his undivided attention.

"Why is Redbeard making that funny noise?"

Mycroft looked to the dog in question, who was lying at Sherlock's feet. The canine did seem to be making a rather abnormal noise, and looked rather forlorn. Mycroft assumed the rascal was sick, told Sherlock as much and continued reading his book after expressing clearly to Sherlock that he was not be disturbed.

Later in the evening, their mother, on the rare occasion that she left her room, was crying out in pain. The two boys, who still harboured some sort of affection for their reclusive mother went to see why their mother was in agony. They were met with the image of blood trickling down their mother's leg, the result of a nasty bite on her right calf, and their mother practically throwing the dog into their father's study.

"Get the first aid kit!" Their snapped once she had sat in the living room sofa, making herself comfortable ignoring the whines that came from their father's study, both from the dog and Sherlock, who entertained a strong affection to the, what the rest of the family called, a flea bag, a mongrel.

When they opened the doors to the study the next morning, Redbeard was nowhere to be found.  
The family were quick to jump to the conclusion that it had escaped, through one of the open windows, no doubt, having always wanting to get rid of the little tyke ever since Sherlock brought it on their doorstep, muddied and wet, and asked politely if he could keep it.  
Sherlock, however, mourned the loss of his only friend, its disappearance removing the only good thing in his life.

* * *

"Why do you believe it so much?"

"What do I believe so much?"

"Your 'Supernatural Mirror' theory."

"And why don't you?"

Sherlock sighed at that, the 'why-is-the-human-race-so-stupid-but-me?' sigh that made John's hands crumple into a fist, and just tingle in anticipation for a much needed punch to Sherlock's face.  
"The plants may rot, but how do you know that it isn't just down to bad water, that the faulty electrics weren't just faulty electrics, and that you're parents' marriage wasn't just a bad marriage, I need to see these things for myself, other people's accounts of anything are irrelevant."

"You have seen it, you just refuse to accept it!"

"Like how you refuse to accept that what happened wasn't just something your imagination conjured up, to have something to blame!"

"Look, forget it. I'm leaving." John threw his hands up in surrender and stormed back to the front room to get his coat, as the pair had covered quite a bit ground during their argument.

What he saw was probably one of the most frightening things he had ever saw.

The two cameras that previously faced The Mirror, were now facing each other so that they were taking footage of the other camera. Sherlock, by this time had stormed into the living room after John, trying to think up of a way to persuade him to stay, after all he would be lost without his blogger. When Sherlock saw what had John rooted to the ground he instantly flew over to the two laptops he had connected to the all the security cameras in the house.  
He pulled up the footage of the four security cameras he had placed in the corners of the room and skipped back to five minutes ago.

"See? That is what you call 'seeing for yourself'," John said after the footage had ended, "Do you remember doing that?"

"No." Sherlock barely got the word out, uncomprehending of the evidence right in front of his eyes.

But no one could deny the affirmation in the contents of the video.

John and Sherlock were seen placing the two cameras facing each other while arguing. And neither of them remembered doing it.

* * *

_'You know my methods, apply them.'_

  1. _Observe everything._
  2. _Deduce everything._
  3. _Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Hope you liked the chapter! I really hope I done young Sherlock and John justice, and also if you think that the characters were a bit OOC than please tell me, I NEED TO KNOW THIS SORT OF STUFF!
> 
> Next chapter will probably focus on the creepier side of things for both past and present John and Sherlock, and when I say creepy, I mean scary, really, really scary!
> 
> Viscosity: The property of a fluid that resists the force tending to cause the fluid to flow.
> 
> Until the next page
> 
> ~ ElevenWholockian ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does have a lot of flashbacks, but, in my opinion they make the story more scarier so...

"Sherlock, no matter how many times you play that over, you will still see the same thing," John was trying his very best to be calm, trying to suppress the growing hysteria within, "Don't you see? This proves it, this is your evidence, your data, your facts!" John was grinning now, his eyes gleamed manically, and now, now he could finally say he wasn't crazy, that what happened was real.

Sherlock ignored John and switched to pacing the living room, _'this can't be right, something's not right_ ,' he was so sure that the mirror wasn't to blame, that everything that happened had happened of its own accord not because of the work of a mirror.

He replayed the recording again, searching for any telltale signs that the clip had been tampered in any way, but he could find none, none whatsoever, all he could see was during their argument, John and Sherlock had been subconsciously moving the video cameras. He replayed it over and over again but found nothing.

"Look, Sherlock, see? The temperature has gone up five degrees Celsius, and the alarms haven't gone off." John waved the thermometer in Sherlock's face, finally getting impatient that his genius flatmate wasn't understanding what was so blatantly right in front of eyes, if the git could be bothered to observe. "And we can't contact the outside world, because if you remember, the Mirror can impersonate voices on the phone so long as you're within range!"

Sherlock was shaking now, fear gripped his lungs, making it hard for him to breath. With tremulous fingers, he pulled out his phone, and ran outside into the biting cold of London. He dialled those three numbers, the numbers that get imprinted into the brains of every child as soon as they can speak, he dialled 999 but no one picked up, instead getting an error message. No matter how many times he tried he couldn't get hold of anyone. Finally he succumbed to his fears, letting them take him as he whispered sloppily formed words to no one in particular saying nothing in particular, because no one and nothing he said would help him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you okay? Sherlock?" John's voice reached out to him, distracting Sherlock from his fear-induced thoughts. He looked up slowly, still shivering from either the cold or fear, neither, both.  
Sherlock uncovered his eyes, and saw not in front of him cars flashing by, drunks stumbling past as they tried to remember which was home after a night of heavy drinking, but instead saw the familiar corridor of 221B Baker Street, and John looking at him in concern, crouching, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, looking at him in the analysing gaze of a doctor and a friend all at once.

* * *

Talitha Holmes was stood in front of The Mirror, looking at herself but not quite looking, she was in the trance-like state she often found herself in. Without warning, the lights dimmed, they weren't switched off, they just faded a little, the light tarnished and a low buzz filled the eerie silence of the house. She looked at the mirror again and what she saw was beyond imagining.

**_'Symptoms:_ **

  * _Wide eyes._
  * _Raised eyebrows._
  * _Flared nostrils._
  * _Clenched mouth._
  * _Slouching or hunching to minimize exposure._
  * _Feet pointed to locate an exit._
  * _Rapid breathing._
  * _Breathing shallower._
  * _Increase in blood pressure._
  * _Increase in pulse rate._
  * _Dilated pupils._
  * _Dry mouth._
  * _Body hair standing on end_
  * _Tense and energized muscles_
  * _Increased perspiration_
  * _Trembling and shaking_
  * _Increased glycogen to glucose conversion_
  * _Sweaty Palms_
  * _Increase in thoughts_
  * _Screaming, yelling or inability to do these things_



_**Conclusion:** _

_Talitha Holmes was experiencing fear.'_

Her reflection was smiling at her, the eyes glazed. Still looking the terrified Talitha in the eyes, the reflection unbuttoned her shirt revealing the scars of her pregnancy, but they slowly began to reopen. Blood seeping out of the reopened scar, dribbling down her stomach and making a puddle of red at her feet.  
Talitha let out a blood curdling scream.

Mycroft and Sherlock ran upstairs to find their mother screaming at the mirror, they didn't see the demon that stood inside the mirror, grinning.  
Mycroft ran to his mother, trying to comfort her from whatever was distressing her in such a way, but when Mycroft laid one finger on his mother, she whipped around, her eyes clouded, hazed as she, without hesitation curled her fingers around the older brother's throat and locked him in a chokehold, squeezing the life out of her child. Sherlock at this point was desperately trying to prize his brother away, tears running down his cheeks, the sheer horror of what was happening in front of him making his movements careless and clumsy. When at last he got his mother away, they ran to Mycroft's bedroom, locking and barricading the door. The two brothers held each other trying to regulate their breathing and stop the ever-flowing tears while their mother pounded at the door, never tiring, never making a move to stop.

_'Talitha Holmes was moved to a psychiatric ward later in the week, the two brothers never saw their mother again.'_

* * *

"What does Mum mean when she said she was 'going to divorce Dad' Harry?"

"It means she's going to divorce him."

The two siblings were silent.

* * *

The heated argument had probably woken the whole neighbourhood up, and the next. The argument was loud and fierce, like the rest of the arguments the couple had had the last few weeks, the Watson children had quickly become used to them, even John at the age of fifteen, who had become twice his age following the events of that night had grown accustomed to the shouts at outrageous hours of the evening.

These arguments tended to finish with a slam of a door, and their mother going upstairs to calm down while their father remained in his study, 'probably cowering', Harry always said. But this one ended with violence. Melissa's pent-up fury finally burst, she had kept quiet for a few years, but the last two years she let her feelings be known, in slaps aimed at her partner.  
The screams made Harry and John come running, to see what the commotion was about, they expected maybe some throwing of expensive objects, kicking, the sort of thing you see in the movies. They didn't expect to see their father suffocating their mother, who was gasping for breath, pure terror in her eyes. Their father turned to see John and Harry frozen to the ground in shock, with a voice loud enough to make even a foghorn seem quiet in comparison, he boomed, "GET OUT!"

Petrified of the madman that was their father, the two siblings ran inside the bathroom and bolted the door shut, whimpering. When they heard their father on the landing upstairs, Harry risked a glance outside, she saw her mother being dragged inside their bedroom, breathing, thank god but unconscious. When she peeked out the door the second time, she saw their father carrying massive chains to the same room he had left their mother in.

* * *

The half an hour alarm rang, alerting the two friends crouched at the doorway of 221B Baker Street that it was time to have a drink.

"Come on," John hauled Sherlock to his feet, the lankier frame of the Consulting Detective limp in his arms, "Let's have a nice drink, yeah?"

Somehow, he got the genius upstairs and into Sherlock's armchair, and here's another miracle for you, to actually drink a cup of orange juice, 'maybe we should get soul sucking mirrors in more often' John thought with amusement but then remembered his childhood and instantly banished the thought away.

The light above the kitchen table suddenly went out, leaving the kitchen plunged into a ghoulish darkness. John looked at the offending light bulb with a sigh, then to the box of back up light bulbs with another sigh.

"Sherlock, I'm going to change the light, okay?" Sherlock gave a stiff nod in reply, still unable to bring himself to form actual words.

John grabbed an apple, feeling a little bit peckish, and bit into its glorious juices before picking a new light bulb with the other hand, off to the right of the box filled with light bulbs, stood a step ladder which had a Post-It note which read, 'For little John'.  
Little John tore the antagonising note off and begrudgingly took the step ladder muttering 'that little dick.' because John knew he wouldn't be able to reach without it and so did Sherlock. Insufferable bastard.

Setting the apple and replacement light bulb down on the worktop, John put the step ladder beneath the light bulb and began to unscrew said light bulb. When the bulb came out into John's waiting hand, John sat the broken bulb next to its new friends and replaced the bulb. Satisfied that the bulb was properly fitted, he took a proud bite of his apple. The light went out again.  
John took the apple out of his mouth.  
There was red everywhere.  
There was blood everywhere.  
There, on the worktop, stood the apple, taunting him.

John had bitten into a light bulb.

Gagging, John slowly removed the blood-coated shards from his mouth, shaking in horror, 'how could he have missed the fact that he had bitten into a fucking light bulb?'

"John?"

John swivelled round facing Sherlock, who was looking just as confused as John was horrified. John looked to the light bulb in his – wait, apple? But he could have sworn it was a light bulb two seconds ago. There was blood, he had felt it, isn't that some kind of rule, that if something's real, you can feel it?

"Let's stick together from now on." Sherlock nodded in agreement, neither wanted to be alone after their separate experiences.

* * *

He was watching the footy match when the TV turned to static the fifth time in the last two days. John sighed, that was another match that he would have to watch on Catch-Up at his mate's house, frankly it was getting bloody ridiculous.  
John's tummy rumbled, screaming for something to digest, when had he last had a proper meal? And not from some crummy chippy down the road?

"Harry! I'm hungry!"

"So get off your arse and make something!" The words were messily structured, 'she's drinking again' John thought with a sigh, that was two people he lost to booze.

He guessed it was worth the effort to see whether there was something, anything left in the fridge that was vaguely edible, so he sauntered off to the kitchen in the hopes that not everything had rotted.

John paused when he got to the stairs, there was a banging noise upstairs. Not feeling hungry any more, John ventured up the stairs, slowly, tentatively putting one step in front of the other, making the barest minimum noise so as to not alert whatever was up there. John's going upstairs apparently also got Harry curious, as she was at his shoulder in seconds. Neither went upstairs until they had to go upstairs to bed or something, still scarred from the events that happened that night. The banging noise continued, it came from their parent's bedroom. The place where their father dragged their mother in, and she never came out.  
The two siblings had considered calling for help but in the end they were terrified of what their Dad might do, should he find out, so it was easier to ignore it, and to carry on.

They stood outside the door, Harry's hand resting on the doorknob, the banging grew louder and louder, the sound filling the two siblings head's until there was nothing left inside their souls.  
There was a pregnant pause when Harry twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door.

The two siblings had gone through hell and back, they both knew that, they also knew that they were better prepared for abnormal situations than most 'normal' people were. But they could never prepare for this, no matter how many times they dived head first inside the fires of Hell, they could never expect to see what they saw now.

Their Mum was shackled to the walls of her bedroom, blood dripping down the same dress she wore on the night of the incident, purple bruises where their father's fingers came into contact with her throat, her teeth were missing, and her eyes were desperate and manic. When she saw her children, she did nothing but scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you there were a ton of flashbacks... I'm not that happy with this chapter, and I did want to include more, but this seemed the perfect place to finish so I did!  
> Unfortunately, this is the end of my pre-written chapters so now you will have to wait until I finally get off my bottom and write!  
> (I'm the world's No. 1 procrastinator I wish you good luck!)
> 
> Until the next page
> 
> ~ElevenWholockian~


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to upload, we are drowning in tests right now so I time got away from me, and then I checked this three days ago, and I was like "Oh my god, it's been that long?!" Anyway enjoy!

"Mum!"

John and Harry's mother let out a strangled sob, as she enveloped them in her arms, their tears mingling with the dry blood on their Mum's arms. Their mother looked terrifyingly emaciated, her limbs stuck out in awkward directions and the blood that had long since overrun her body covered up whatever skin was left.

All the medical knowledge John had ever learnt on the dangers and effects of malnutrition rushed to the forefront of his mind, his brain bursting at the seams of medical knowledge he wished he never knew because, he knew it would take a miracle to save her. Equally, he also knew that it was in no way possible for her to have gotten so deathly so quickly, it would have taken months, if that, to reach the stage his mother was in. So the question was, then _how did she?_

"Harry? John?"

"Shit!" John scrambled to his feet, and tried to control his thoughts from their disarrayed state, he needed to stay calm, "Harry, Harry, come on, Harry," John pulled his sister to her feet, pushing her towards the door, "Mum, we're going to get some help…Just stay right where you are, okay?" John wobbled through his words, his hold of reality completely shaken.

He closed the door on his sobbing Mum, wincing when the door shut and he thrust his Mum into the abyss.

Wiping the tears from their eyes, the two siblings descended down the flight of stairs, trying to appear as unaware as they were before they saw… Well, you know… They exchanged a few words of greeting with their… Dad? Captor? Murderer if all went as their father planned? After John just barely managed to keep Harry from strangling their father where he stood, the two siblings dialled the police, to be honest, they weren't sure why they hadn't done this years before, when this whole shitty business started.

"Hello, is this the police?"

Silence.

"We need help, our Mum's dying we need help!"

Silence.

"Hello? Are you listening? Our Dad is trying to kill us!"

If silence was annoying, the sentence the operator did voice was infuriating, "I suggest you get your father on the phone and tell us that."

"Sorry? How can we tell our Dad to tell you that he is trying to kill us?"

"You'll figure it out."

"Wha-?" The line broke off. "Fuck!" John slammed the phone down, what the hell were they meant to do now? And who did that bloody stupid guy think he was?

"What? Are they coming?"

"No, stupid fucker told me to get Dad to tell them he was trying to kill us."

"Bastard." Was all Harry said, mimicking her brother's movements, scratching her head and pacing the room, the scene would almost be comical if the situation wasn't so grave, "Right, let's just go to the neighbours, they'll help, they'd have heard them two yelling."

"Right." John couldn't help but think they were only going to dig themselves in a deeper hole than the one they were in now, instead of helping themselves get out of it.

He was right.

An hour and a half later, the two siblings found themselves being jostled into the house, their father the personification of a volcano ready to erupt, pressure building and gathering, silent if not for the small tell-tale increase in seismic activity, stowed away into a store, where it carried on simmering and bubbling, the magma pushing upwards ever more until it finally erupted. The magma became lava, spewing and spitting out pyroclasts, clouds of ash preventing escape.

Oblivion was inevitable. Utter destruction loomed. Death lurked in the shadows.                          Their father was about to erupt.

He slammed the door of his study, his safe haven, their Hell on Earth, shut. No sound, no nothing.This was the silence before the storm.

Harry and John stood side by side outside the door, listening steadily to the silence.

Then came the sounds of the small tremors, the earthquakes before the inevitable, gradually increasing in strength and frequency, the clatter of various objects flung across the room, shattering in small fragments of a whole, scattering as they hit the ground, the vibrations bouncing off the walls.

The two siblings listened with racing hearts, if this was the earthquakes before the eruption, what was the eruption going to be? The need to flee blurred all other emotions, making their thoughts erratic, spasmodic, uncertain, their thoughts meandering, never staying on the straight path. But before they could do anything, something, hands latched onto their unsuspecting shoulders, restraining them, and dragged the pair into the walls of the study.

Momentum carrying them backwards, they stumbled into a heap on the floor.They saw merely a glimpse of their father closing the door. Manic was a word that was bandied around too often, used in such a way that the word lost its meaning, now manic was too soft a word for what was painted onto their father's features. Their father looked utterly psychotic.

The sound of a bolt sliding into place filled John's ears.            They were locked in.                 With The Mirror.                       The Devil in this place of Hell.

* * *

 

The lights flickered before once again leaving the room, darkness seeping in like fog through the city, creeping and tip-toeing, not exactly tangible but physically present all the same, its long fingers outstretched reaching for you.

The two men silently agreed that darkness in the same room as The Mirror was 'actually really, really not good'.

John fumbled for the emergency power source in the corridor, ghosting his hands across the walls, looking for a phantom power switch that seemed to be taunting him, yelling 'catch me if you can!'

* * *

 

Darkness.                          Shadows.

They really are funny things. They are mankind's primary fear, the fear that takes every child first, long before any other fear can, and whose grasp is strongest. It never lets go, not truly.

Darkness is defined as absence of light, full stop. It is also a place where light can't get to it. Which is scariest to you?

Even the notion of being afraid of the darkness is wrong, we are scared of what is in it. Fear of the unknown. Fear of reaching out and touching not the air between your fingers but the tips of a hand. Not knowing whether the shadow you see before your eyes is that of a coat, or that of an intruder. Fear of looking out of the window and seeing not the night falling but a face looking right into your eyes.

Funny thing is the darkness. It is a disguise into which all the unknown hides behind.

John thinks that nothing can be worse that being locked in with It. He is wrong.                            The absolute worst thing possible thing that could happen is being locked in with It in the dark.

* * *

 

"Got it!" John's fingers finally landed upon the cold plastic of the emergency power switch. Sighing in relief he flicked it on, eyes shut to prepare them for the light.  

None came.

John flicked it on and off again, the childlike fear of being forever in the darkness empowering him, like a cancer, killing every cell of every organ bit by bit, effectively shutting him down. Then came the need to be with someone lashing through every fibre of his being as he ran to the living room.

The smashing of the pot plant didn't even register in his head until when Sherlock's face whipped round to look into the corridor, eyes widening when he saw the front of John's left sock engulfed in blood, the original gash just visible above the hem of the sock. It wasn't deep, thank God.

"I'll get it." Sherlock said vaguely aware that that was what friends did in these types of circumstances, picking up a dustpan and brush from the corner of the room which housed all the supplies.

John just exhaled in response, ignoring the pain and entering the kitchen for some water, not trusting the alarms to do their jobs since their colleagues, the temperature and food alarm, did not ring and dehydration was not the way he wanted to go.

Illuminated by the moonlight invited inside by the window, John saw broken shards of plates carpeting the wood panelling.

Unlocking his phone and starting the Camera app, John directed the camera to look at the ceramic infested floor below him, figuring he might as well document the strange goings on if ever Sherlock denies it.                                 Just as John is lowering his finger to take the photo he realises he is taking a photo of the floor. With no sign of any plate shards. Not believing his eyes he lowers his finger to the ground, right above the tip of a shard. He touches smooth panelling, not the jagged edge of a broken shard of ceramic, on his phone his finger passes through the object as though he was dipping his hand into water, the object parting away, letting the finger dive through it.

'Okay…They aren't real then…' John just wanted the hour to be done so the kill switch can do what it was made to do. Kill The Mirror.

Filling his cup with water John lifts the camera to the water to make sure the water isn't actually blood or anything, once he is satisfied with the result he gulps the contents down his sore throat.

John turns around to make his way out, phone in hand to scan whatever looks mildly threatening, even if it is a spoon (seriously, you think it's going to threaten you with a spoon?).

He stops dead in his tracks.

His father is standing in the middle of the sliding doors. Baring his teeth, his eyes replaced with mirrors. His face is mangled and contorted, the skin folded and twisted and knotted together, looking more like a scrunched up ball than a face. His clothes are bloodied, blackened to look like his very insides are rotting and decaying.                                 What is more terrifying than his demonic appearance is the chains.

The very chains that are stained with their mothers blood, hang from John's Dad's hands like snakes, hissing and spitting at John, muscles tensed, ready to suck the life out of his body.

Suddenly, his father is running towards him, grinning, and the chains swishing angrily from side to side by his legs.

John armed with a gun in his trouser pocket and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes pulls the trigger wielded with precision and without hesitation, without remorse.

He doesn't hear a woman's cry for help. He doesn't hear _her_ cry for help.                                          

His wife, the mother of his unborn child, the woman he loves – _loved._

Mary.

In seconds he was by her side, sobbing, clutching her weakening pulse, willing his life to pour into hers. He could hear every short pained breath and it hit him like a ton of bricks, he could hear her cry for help reaching his ears too, too late. John didn't even notice Sherlock take his side, silent.

"Joh…" Mary died at 8:07pm, Thursday 12th July, 2014 as a result of a bullet wound, with John's name on her lips.

Long after her life left her lips, John clutched his wife's hands, his tears leaving a salty taste in his mouth, fingers shaking.

"Give me my phone."

"John, there is nothing you can do, she's dead."

"Just. Give. Me. My. Phone." Hand reaching out for the device, "Please."

Sherlock slowly got up, and picked up the phone which had dropped at the sight of what John believed to be his father. Hesitating a moment, he pressed the cool metal into his friends waiting hand.

John's whimpering hands pointed the camera to Mary's body, capturing the wound right in the centre. She was on the screen. She was actually dead. He wanted to believe that the Mirror was playing tricks again, but it wasn't. He shot his wife.

Mary was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I feel so evil writing this, but it just had to be done! Hopefully you liked this chapter because this is my least favourite in terms of writing, anyway. Also, I hope the death bit was done tastefully, but I didn't want to dwell on it for too long.
> 
> Thank you for those who reviewed and favourited, I normally mention them but my mum is giving me 'The Look' and telling me to go to sleep and I really dont want to challenge 'The Look' right now. I'll add them tomorrow, and that goes for any mistakes I made as well!
> 
> Until the next time
> 
> ~ElevenWholockian~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long to write, and really I have no excuses apart from the usual which are pretty pathetic for this amount of time, however now that I am back I bring with me the present of this chapter which I hope you will very much enjoy!

Cold, cold, cold. Everything was cold.

Shock, (n.): 1. An acute medical condition associated with a fall in blood pressure, caused by such events as loss of blood, severe burns, allergic reaction, or sudden emotional stress.

He felt the warmth depart from his fingers, waving farewell. The type of goodbye that means this was is the last goodbye, no more hellos or greetings would ensue, this was goodbye.

Was, (n.): 1. The past tense.

A simple word, with a simple definition. The implication of a word can't be encompassed by the definition. _Was_ carries a simple definition but conveys a much more complex meaning. _Was_ is the word you use when talking about the past. Done, finished, not anymore. _Was_ is the word which is used when describing the deceased. Done, finished, not anymore.

 _Was_ is a word which would be used to describe _her_. Done, finished, not anymore.

The lights blinked again, plummeting the room into a temporary blackness.( then the lights returned to the room, almost focusing on the wall directly opposite the Mirror. They blinked again. A woman is standing right in the middle of the room, her midnight black hair tangled and knotted, her white dress billowing behind her, stained with splatters of blood and dirt. Her pupils are replaced by mirrors. She is smirking.

The two men locked eyes with hers, a silent gasp passes the lips.

The lights blink rapidly, and each time the lights turn on again the woman steps closer to John, increasing in her pace until she is running towards him, a silent battle cry on her lips, her mouth gaping open. John scrambled to his feet, doesn't even flinch at the sound of a gunshot and runs outside, Sherlock was right at his heel, gun waving uselessly in his hand, the tingling sensation of the gunpowder burn spreads across his hands, paralysing it.

They sat panting on the curb of the opposite pavement, watching the door of their flat, watching for any signs of danger, no matter how insignificant or slight. Nothing. Not even the cars dared venture into the nightmare they were ensnared in.

Sherlock fidgeted next to John, 'what was he supposed to say?' He didn't know whether he should be offering comfort or let John grieve on his own. Sherlock pondered over the realisation that perhaps this must be what it's like for people when Sherlock refuses to talk to anyone.

"Joh-"

"Sherlock, look." John's voice was perfectly calm, not wavering, Sherlock didn't know whether that was good or bad. John nodded in the direction of the window, where a faint light was glistening.

Sherlock would have dismissed it of no consequence if he hadn't seen the look on John's face; he was shocked, and there was something else… Turning back to the window, he scoured the part of the room that was visible, searching for what shocked John so. When his eyes did land upon it, Sherlock blinked.  
It was him. And John. Standing in front what was certainly the Lasser Glass. An eerie smile plastered onto their otherwise expressionless faces.

* * *

"Don't… Please…Don't leave me."

"I need to go, you know that," he sighed unsure of how to go about doing this, this touchy-feely lark. It was something that he, as much as he loathed to admit it, was one of the few (very few, mind you) things he couldn't do. "Once I get a job, we can leave here, and never come back. But I need to go to University first, you'll be fine."

So he left.

And Sherlock was not fine.

Sherlock waited. He ripped open the letters his brother sent like a normal child would rip open their presents on their birthday, (or Christmas, or other such pointless occasions), and hopes that today would be the day he would be able to join his brother and get away from this place. But like any child must, he grew up, and he grew up much too quickly. He learned to take the beatings his father gave, to not question anything, to mind his own business. Slowly, this once curious and naïve person receded into nothing, and another, unrecognisable person took his place. This person went straight to his bedroom as soon as he came home from an equally lonely day as the one at home at school, who skipped meals so he wouldn't need to leave his sanctuary, who lost feeling anything for anything, effectively destroying the bridge to his heart. Sherlock led a dreary existence, and every day he immersed himself into his studies, almost savagely.

The world is a place of colour, painted with different shades of every colour imaginable. The green of the grass tickling your feet tessellated with lighter greens, darker greens, yellows and browns, moulding together, linking together to make a bigger, beautiful picture. The rich sunset, beautiful shades of pink and purple and blue, moulding together wondrously. But all Sherlock could see was grey, solid and unwavering, an unwanted constant in his life. Soon he lost all memory of the colour of emotions and feeling, soon he saw the world for what it was; a massive rock that orbited the Sun, rotating as it does so, not a world full of happiness and betterment of race. Soon he forgot even that. A human body was not a wonder filled with the capacity to love and be loved but a set of organs working in conjunction with each other.

The drugs helped.

A needle. A pinprick. A drop of blood. A syringe injecting the drugs into his veins.

And then let there be light.

Light breaking through the layer of thick grey clouds, cascading into the world, flowing in and out of small crevices and cracks, punctuating each and every colour with glorious detail, until there was nothing left. It was beautiful. Magnificent. Magical. It was not real.  
So he used again. Again and again, he clung to a world full of colour and again and again it slipped from his grasp. And little by little, his older brother's heart broke into pieces seeing his once full of life, exuberant, vivacious, spirited, vibrant little brother turn to be like him, and then worse, and all he could do was watch It was at that point that he came to be introduced to his true fear; the fear of every older sibling. Fear of seeing their sibling die.

* * *

Harry immediately stood up and started towards the door, knocking on it, screaming as loud as she could, meanwhile all John could think about was getting some light in the room. He was on the side of the room, fumbling for a desk light he knew his father kept on his desk amongst all the clutter. John moved his hands to left of the desk, his actions becoming more frantic as his fear threatened to overwhelm him. Just as his left hand met the base of his father's desk light, his right instead touched the cutting edge of a knife blade. He felt a small stinging sensation before his left hand flicked the switch, letting the light flood into the room again. That was when he fully registered the pain in his thumb; he looked down to his thumb, and watched the red dribbling down the side of his hand.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, just got cut." John wiped his hand on his trousers. He regretted it as soon as his hands touched the fabric, leaving the blood on his trousers and carrying another sting of pain back."I think it was from Dad's penknife."

"That looks bad." Harry examined John's thumb, which spurted another spot of red as Harry's hand gripped unto his.

"I think Dad's got some plasters in his drawers, and I'll look for them."

"Okay." John said, nursing his throbbing thumb.

Harry retrieved the plaster from his desk, the desk light her guide and gently applied the plaster, cringing at her brother's pained expression, feeling so helpless because she just didn't know what to do anymore. She was supposed to be protecting her little brother for fuck's sake!

Another hour passed, and nothing happened.

John picked at his thumb, the restricting plaster making him feel uneasy, and his thumb felt like it was suffocating, if that were even possible. John kept itching, ignoring Harry's glare that told him to 'stop making that noise, idiot!' The edge of John's plaster was now peeling off which furthered John's annoyance. Huffing, John got up to put his plaster in the bin at the corner of the room. At the foot of the bin, John started to remove his plaster, flinching as some of his skin went with it, intensifying the pain already present from his gash. Relieving more of his thumbnail of the plaster, more blood seeped out, worryingly so. Frowning, John proceeded with caution, lifting the papery material off his thumb as more blood spurted forth with a rude vengeance.

Oh.

Tilting his thumb to the pathetic light to his left, John saw the answer to his newly acquired pain. His thumbnail had been pulled from his thumb, stuck to the inside of his blood soaked plaster.

He didn't even know why a plant parallel to him drew his attention, but once it had his eye was besotted with it. He watched with in confused awe as the plant slowly wilted, discoloured. Drooping leaves fell to the ground. Then a black, lumpy, gooey liquid dripped out of the stalk with an eerie grace, almost uniform-like, and crawled towards him. Soon every plant, of which there were a frightening number, had wilted, conceiving the same liquid as they did. The separate puddles of sentient slime assembled, like rain drops on a car window, getting bigger and bigger, getting faster and faster but John's feet were rooted to the ground, unable to do anything but watch. Harry, however just saw her little brother dropping the plaster in the bin, completely unaware of the event unfolding in front of her.

Then the walls rusted and cracked, and each time a crack appeared another drop of the indefinable liquid spewed from it. Very soon a wall of just seamless darkness had appeared, pushing forward but also pulling back as it consumed whatever stood in its path. John watched in horror as he lifted his shaking hands to his eyes, and saw the flesh on his hands peel away, the black liquid spurting forth as more of his flesh fell away, running down his arms as it did so. A scream formed in the bottom of his stomach as his horror accumulated…

A shrill high-pitched scream cut him off that John instantly recognized as Harry's. Protective instinct weaved its way past the bundle of nerves his mind now was making. John turned his head to Harry, who had her mouth open in a silent scream, tears dripping down onto her cheeks earnestly. As soon as he had saw her, his eyes flicked back to his own hands that were still trembling in such a way to rival the shaking of the earth in an earthquake, but now empty there was no sign of the black liquid that had just moments ago been eating up his hands. Surveying the room, he saw also that the room was also barren of any liquid and the plants were refreshingly healthy. Now focusing his attention back on his sister, John made his way to her, embracing her frail body, trying to figure out what she had seen to put her state of mind into such disarray. Her eyes were fixed onto the opposite wall, to the right of the mirror. Following her line of sight, his eyes landed on yet another disturbing sight.

A woman that would later host so many of his nightmares was sitting beside a corpse of a dog. Her clothes that would have been pure white were blooded and ripped, the woman herself in no better state. She ripped off a chunk off the decaying corpse and, bit into it hungrily and, this was what really set John on edge, licked her lips. John gasped, disgusted and terrified of the sight in equal measure.

He should have kept the gasp in.

The woman whipped her head round impossibly fast, locking onto the two petrified children, who were now her targets. With an animalistic growl, her pupils constricted as she slowly got up. It wasn't until she fully drew herself to her full height that the two siblings reacted. They fell down to the ground as they stumbled to the door, seeing her thin frame walking towards them. Harry and John began backing up towards the door, picking up the pace as the woman began to full-on sprint towards them, mouth open as if in preparation to rip their flesh off their bones. Their backs met the smooth surface of the door, and it dawned on them that they were locked in and they were going to meet their end by being eaten alive. As the ghastly woman, lined with wrinkles which made her scar laced face sag even more, came within an inch of their shaking bodies, the door behind gave way, prompting the two to fall to the ground with a definite jarring thud. Their eyes flew open, greeted by the sight of their mother's head above them, worried, but there was a glint of happiness at being reunited with her children.

John looked to the room in front of him, empty of any woman intent of ripping their guts out and sucking the blood out of their veins. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm so sorry this took so long to upload but I do hope you liked this chapter and if it did seem 10 times more brilliant than it normally is (normal being abysmal) then that is because it is and it's because of the brilliant work of Nimthiriel Eruhin, on Fanfiction.net who is no doubt one of the most talented writers here! So thank you for being such an amazing beta reader!
> 
> Thank you to, wholockian007 and two other guests for commenting and putting kudos(?) on my work! Also thank you to those who bookmarked my work, I can't put your username on, because I cant get to the page for some reason.... Maybe I'll call in Jim from IT...  
> (I still have no idea of the AO3 lingo so bear with me!)


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